


221b Paper Street

by duchessof221b



Category: Fight Club (1999), Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Depressed John, M/M, everybody has a sick and unhealthy life philosophy, horrible sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:12:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchessof221b/pseuds/duchessof221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BBC Sherlock x Fight - Club AU<br/>When John comes back to London, depressed and lonely, he develops an insomnia. He finds a creative solution, but even this is taken from him. Then he meets Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter1: Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks for my incredible beta, Stephrc79, who is patient and lovely and basically the best beta I could have wished for.

Sherlock teaches me the science of deduction, after that Sherlock’s standing behind me on the rooftop of St.Barts Hospital and saying,”The first step to eternal life is you have to die.”

He is telling me to jump.

For a long time, though, Sherlock and I were best friends. People always asking, did I know about Sherlock Holmes.

The tips of my shoes are sticking out over the very roof top, and Sherlock says, “We really won’t die.”

I’m staring at the parked lorry on the paved road below us. It will start very soon.

“This isn’t really death,” Sherlock says. “We’ll be a supernova. We won’t grow old.”

I turn my head to look at him and say, Sherlock, you’re thinking of the solar system.

Sherlock is forcing me to jump, but the truth is, the building we’re standing on won’t be here in ten minutes. You take a 98 percent concentration of fuming nitric acid and add it to three times that amount of sulphuric acid. Do this in an ice bath. Your flatmate's bath, because why the hell not. Then add glycerine, drop-by-drop, with an eye dropper. You have nitro-glycerine.

I know this because the chemist, the consulting detective, the only one in the world, Sherlock Holmes, knows this.

So Sherlock and I are on the rooftop of St.Barts and he is forcing me to jump and die a tragic romantic death.

It’s a typical, cloudy Londonian day, and the building is quite high. It’s so quiet and peaceful this high up.

You feel so ordinary, under the shadow of your madman. You see the brilliant man do his magic and all you can do is moan and announce: Amazing, fantastic.

If your manic is kind enough, he will explain his deductions. You will listen and try very hard to understand his methods and then you just die.

On the roof of the hospital you look over the age, and your beloved London below is mottled with a shag carpet of people, looking up.

And out there, all around the city, we have our own army of ordinary people running wild, destroying every piece of history.

That old saying, how you always kill the one you love, well look, it works both ways. Sherlock Holmes and I were lovers and now everything is in chaos. I’m going to smash into the ground, and the hospital is going to blow up, and everybody will die, and I used to be such a nice guy.

We’re down to our last ten minutes.

Sherlock Holmes can identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. We both can concoct explosives good enough to take down a building. I can't deduce anything but I know three ways to make napalm. Ask me how to make a nerve gas. Oh, all those crazy car bombs. I was a soldier - a doctor - now I'm an anarchist or a terrorist or a broken shape of a former side-kick.

Nine minutes.

The Hospital will go over. All 4 floors of that good old building will fall, slow as a tree falling in the forest. Timber. You can topple anything. It's weird to think the place we're standing on will be a point in the sky, so very soon.

Sherlock and I are on the end of the roof, I'm looking at my shoes just to think how dirty that bloody roof is. Pigpens have no mercy and their dung can be full of infections.

We just totally forgot about Sherlock's whole murder–suicide thing while we watch a first born explosion starting his performance. We see it from the distance; Smoke is climbing up, concrete collapsing down.

Eight minutes.

Our ordinary army of people will blow the center of London today, and that view we both see right now will go into the history books.

"This is our world now. our world." Sherlock whispers, "and all those dull people are dead."  
If I knew how this would all turn out, I'd be more than happy to be dead in heaven right now.  
Beautiful violence, poetic philosophy of the most intellectual mind in the world, it's all the same.

Seven minutes.

Up on the top of St.Barts with Sherlock behind me, forcing me to jump to my death without even touching me, London is being covered by explosions, those deadly popping bubbles.  
I know all. The fall. The anarchy. The explosives.

It's about Sherlock and me. Sherlock and me and definitely not about The Woman, Irene Adler.

Six minutes.

You see, we have sort of a love triangle thing going here. I want Sherlock, Irene wants me, Sherlock wants chaos. I don't want Irene, Sherlock doesn't want me around, no, not anymore.  
Our affair wasn’t about love and caring. This is about property, as in ownership.

Oh, what is freedom, the glorious miracle of death. Don't you know, the greatest masters are the biggest slaves.

Five minutes.

Maybe we should become a supernova. Maybe not.

No, I say, but wait. Where would Jesus be if no one had written the gospels? I'm the writer, aren’t I? I'm the biographer. I'm the one telling the adventures of the great detective, Sherlock Holmes.

Four minutes.

I turn again, looking at those pale pale pale blue eyes and say, Sherlock, I'll make you a supernova. I've been here from the very beginning. I was so alone, Sherlock, and I owe you so much. Don't worry, I can tell your story. And I remember everything.

Three minutes


	2. Chapter 2

Ten thin fingers are clenching like two symmetric forceps when gripping the fabric of my jumper. The nameless blonde woman is sobbing into my chest, her head resting on my shoulder and she’s cry cry crying.

I'm closing my arms around her shaking shape, taking a deep breath, feeling the tension melting out of my body, just like sugar dissolves in a cup of boiling water, and this is where I lose myself and cry too.

Crying makes you feel alive when you see how everything you can ever accomplish will be lost. Anything you're ever proud of will be thrown away, everyone you ever loved will end up as dead or, more specifically, lying on a bunk in a body bag in the morgue. Here, in the hall of the morgue, you are closer than ever to fully understanding the real meaning of freedom. The pain of those who lost their beloveds has a dreadful addicting effect. You see the great abandon of death, and you feel calm and peaceful.

To be honest, the only reason this woman - this stranger - likes me is because she thinks I just lost someone too. She was called to identify her sister’s corpse, and now she is shocked and alarmed. I haven't lost anyone today. I cry because of the glorious realisation. One day, your life will come down to nothing, and not even nothing: Oblivion. It is easy to cry when you comprehend that everyone you love will either reject you or die. On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero.

I inhale heavily and open my wet eyes.

And then I see her. 

Another woman is standing down the darkened hall with a concentrated look on her face and a cigarette in her mouth. I know this certain kind of look. Nobody ever wears this one here; no one but me, probably. She is facing the open double doors of the morgue. The woman must be glaring at the body bags. I do this too, when there are no mourners around. It makes me so calm.

She blows some smoke between her lips then blinks and looks at me. Her face twists oddly to one side when her eyes meet mine. She smiles. She knows just like I know.  
My therapist, Ella, always said I was haunted by the war, but I know it's not true.

I knew I was missing something. And these people, those visits at the morgue, were what I needed to remind myself I'm alive. It's a cheap thrill, but it's everything.

I come here two or three times a week, when Molly Hooper has a shift. She sees me, blushes and mumbles, and then lets me do whatever I want to do. I have plenty of things to do. When families are coming to identify a body, it takes me a few minutes to cry. I stand in a safe distance and watch. Waves of exhilaration hit my heart when I think of the beauty of life and death. When people come alone, I'm able to give a comforting hug or a shoulder to cry on, and I cry even more easily. If there's nobody at all, I stare at those dead people, look at their blue skin, and feel so calm.

This crying woman in my arms, she trusts me. She is sharing her priceless pain with me. But when I see the other woman, that calm smiling woman, the pain and the comfort suddenly vanish. This woman is not a mourner. She’s a fake! A shameless fake!

Just look at her. Green fancy dress covers a tall thin torso, exposing smooth white skin. High elegant cheekbones, dark hair tied back in an English rose way, bright blue eyes, red full lips curved into a seductive smirk. She was here on Monday and even last week, and tonight again. Now I am empty and restless. I can't cry when she is watching, that pervert.

"Oh heavens, look at that smile," says the woman I'm holding, with a small voice. I hadn't even noticed she turned her head to look at the other woman. One single tear is sliding down her flushed cheek and she says, "She must be in some kind of denial. I don't think I’ll be able to smile ever again."

Shhh, I whisper, and hold her tighter.

This used to be my therapy, my vacation, and then that woman came and took the only place I could ever really relax.

She ruined my precious moment and made me empty, so empty, again. Her lie is exposing my lie, and it's unacceptable.

When nightmares keep waking you up around three to five in the morning, every morning, you stop sleeping.

When I was invalided back to London after the war, stone broke and lonely, I developed some unhealthy habits. The insomnia was the main one.

In my dreams I was lost in a heavy dark smoke. Sometimes I just heard multiple gunshots, and a few times, I saw faded faces and heard unknown voices, mumbling words in an imaginary language.

Every single night I woke up breathless, my heart was pounding in my chest and blood boiling in my ears.

My insomnia wasn't a choice, it just happened. One day I stopped sleeping at night.

Let me tell you that when you get trapped in insomnia, everything looks like a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy and the original is quite ugly.

I couldn't find a clinic to hire me.I felt like my time was limited. 

My therapist kept telling me to open a blog and write about my life. When I told her that nothing ever happened to me, she gave me a stern look and said she was sure there are some beautiful moments in my life that were worth sharing.

I spent so many sleepless nights staring at my computer screen and thinking. From time to time I was waking up and finding myself lying in random alleys, never even remembering when I left my flat.

It took me three months of sneaky naps to accidently find a solution. One afternoon, I took a walk at the Russell Square Park. My cane was hitting the ground with soft clicks in a rhythm that seems like an angry march to my aching mind.

Suddenly, I heard a voice calling my name and I turned around.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at the university together." A man rose from a bench, smiling.

Yes, sorry, yes, Mike, I said quickly, taking the offered hand and shaking it. Hello, hi, I mumbled.

Mike grinned and said, "Yeah, I know. I got fat."

I shook my head politely and said, no.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at," he said playfully. "What happened?"

I tried very hard not to roll my eyes and said, I got shot.

To make this small talk a bit easier, I suggested buying some take-away coffees.

I took mine caffeine free, and we sat side by side on the bench. I took a sip from the coffee and said, are you still at Bart’s?

Mike nodded, "Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them."  
I smiled, almost laughed, really.

Mike continued, "What about you? You look horrible, mate."

I can't sleep, I said, just can't sleep at all.

"Well, insomnia alone hasn't really killed anyone yet." Mike smirked. 

I took a long sip from my coffee and said, Mike, It’s not just insomnia, my situation is serious. How about you give me one of those blue pills? Maybe you can give me the red pills too. It will help me like magic.

Mike raised his eyebrows and said, "You want me to give you pills? I know you are better than that.” When I continued to glare at him, he said, “The insomnia is obviously a part of your PTSD. You see your therapist, don’t you?”

I do, I said, but she is not very helpful.

“You need to find some peace, after everything you've seen in the war. You're alive, should be happy." he said.

I sighed heavily and whispered, I'm a zombie, a walking dead.

Suddenly, Mike giggled.

What? I asked.

"You know what, if you want to see real death, come to Bart's and see the morgue. See that, look at yourself and find your inner happiness." He said.

I blinked. What kind of sick joke was that? See the morgue? I'm not a psychopath.

My hand started to shake and my fingers closed tightly around the cup. See the morgue? No, no, I'm a doctor, my profession is to save lives, and dead people won't make me happy. See the morgue? Mike was crazy.

I went there on the next evening. That little young pathologist, Molly Hooper, offered me a cup of coffee, but I resisted. The things I’ve seen, oh, it made me so calm and serene. On that very night when I came home, for the first time in months, I slept like a baby.

I only realise how numb my fingers are, after they slip from the shoulders of the blonde. Without thinking much, I take a step and then another and get closer to that smirking woman. She drops her cigarette on the floor and steps on it in the calmest way. How rude. 

Am I missing something? I’m whispering, doing my best to control my growing frustration, and saying, I know who you are, you can’t trick me.

Her long, dark lashes are clapping when she blinks at the beat of her words, “I’ve seen you here before, and I believe we share a boat when it comes to hobbies and pleasure, mister.”

What a shameless psychopath. It’s not about pleasure, not at all, it’s about the meaning of life.

You can’t just invade the morgue and watch dead people! I’m saying, and when her eyebrows are raising, I add quickly, I’m a doctor, a medical doctor. How did you even manage to get in here?

“I know what some of the workers here like,” she says. “What about you? You don’t work here.”

Something inside me shrinks when I think of the meaning behind her words, and I take a look behind me.

The mourning blonde is still standing there. Her face is wet but she is not crying anymore. I take a deep breath and turn back to the faker and hiss that I know some workers as well, but not in the biblical way.

“Did you know that the dead woman was found dead in an abandoned house, even though she didn’t have any reason to be there? The cops believe she committed suicide, but she wrote a word on the wooden floor with her fingernail. Rache, the German word for revenge.”

I feel the blood running out of my face, and a strict wave of coldness is washing my body. My heart starts to beat so fast that I find myself panting. She is crazy. This woman is absolutely mad and I need to get out of here.

How do you even know that? You have some cop friends, too? I ask. My voice sounds too strange.

Ignoring my questions, she add, “Oh, and they couldn’t find her phone or suitcase anywhere, despite the fact that she travelled from Cardiff to London and never had a chance to check in her hotel.” 

I can’t help the panic that’s attacking me, not even sure why I’m reacting like that. I snap a look at the blonde again. She is silent, but her eyes are wide open. One whole minute passes before I’m able to trust my throat and say, Is this what turns you on or something?

“I Like Detective Stories. And Detectives.” She is smiling again. “and I think you’re the one turned on.”

I can’t remember the last time I felt so uncomfortable. I don’t want to know any details about the cause of death. 

I visited the morgue countless times, but I never asked the mergers how their beloved died. It wasn’t about the cause of death, never. As a doctor and a soldier, I know that death is everywhere. Being an army doctor means you are playing two roles: A warrior and a doctor. In the battlefield, the wounds are all you think about when you try to save a life. When I come to the morgue to think of life, my mind forces on the complete opposite, I’m thinking about the death and the loss because this is what I see as the very last freedom and victory of any organism. Like reaching the end of a contract. Thinking about the scene before the bodybag is painting my philosophy in black. It’s poking the thin dust that’s left from my mercy — my sense of justice — my professional ethics. 

And this woman — this damn woman — she enjoys that. She is thrilled, not by the beautiful pain of life and joy of death, but by the tragedy around.

I have had enough of this. I’m actually a good guy, I have my values. Quickly, I take the woman by the hand, not forgetting to pick up my cane from the wall it was leaning on, and lead her out of the morgue hall. She is protesting, saying, “What do you think you’re doing?” but it doesn’t sound very convincing.

You should really, really stop coming here, I ground out once we’re in another hall in the hospital. It’s a bit crowded here, but I can’t bring myself to care. 

You can’t do this, I say when words are flooding from me, it’s not healthy, and you ruin everything. You know what, we can share. I always come here when it’s Molly’s shifts, you can take the days she is not there, and what’s your name, anyway?

“My name is Irene Adler.” She says, “And no, no deal. Molly Hooper is here five days a week. That poor girl doesn’t take a break. How about...”

She retrieves my mobile out of the pocket of my jeans. I shiver, and Irene Adler is typing something. 

“There, now we can coordinate our visits, if it bothers you so much.” She stuffed the mobile back into my pocket and says, “Well, good evening. See you again, or not.”

With this, Irene Adler is turning away and walking along the hall. I feel a few pairs of strange eyes examining me. I ignore the judgmental look of the secretary who sits in the corner with the phone in hand and mouth wide open, and I check my mobile. Irene Adler saved her number in my contacts. I don't need her phone number. I won't call her, I won't text her, and more importantly, I won’t have the pleasure of sleeping tonight, I knew it already. My leg is aching only by thinking about the upcoming insomnia. 

I’m angry, I’m furious, I’m so unbelievably empty. Well, Ella, guess what, I have something to blog about today. I have a hobby to share. I remember that there’s a computer lab somewhere around, and I find it easily. The large room is full of computers and empty of people. I step in, breath out, but when I look up again, I'm surprised to see a slender man raising from one of the chairs. He is scratching one long pale arm, his blackberry mobile is up in the air. 

"Can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." he says. 

I hesitate, and the man says, “I prefer to text, so the landline is not an option.”

No, have it, no problem, I say when the man reaches me. 

“Oh, thank you.” the man says as he turns around and texting. “Afghanistan or iraq?”

Excuse me? I say, eyebrows raising.

“I asked, Afghanistan or iraq?”

Afghanistan, my voice falls into a whisper, and then I ask, how did you know?

The man takes a mug of coffee with his free hand and drink it slowly, concentrated on the screen of my mobile.

“How do you feel about the violin?” he asks.

The conversation seems too odd and I wonder if somehow he is talking on the phone, maybe he has a speaker in his ear? no, he doesn’t. 

I’m sorry, what? I ask.

The man ducks a little to type something on the keyboard of the computer he was using. Then he looks directly at me, I stare back at his blue eyes and I hear him saying, “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

My jaw drops and I blink, my brain processing way too slowly. I’m not looking for a flatmate! I manage to say.

“No, but you need one.” he smiles, “You clearly need a new environment, you and your PTSD.”

How do you even know about that? and Afghanistan? I question.

The tall man ignores me again, “Got my eye on a nice little place in the edge of London. Together we can afford it easily.”

I’m not looking for a flat! I insist.

“We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry – gotta dash.” He says as he shoves the phone into my handheld.

I’m not going to meet you there! I hear myself saying, we've only just met and we're gonna go and share a flat?

“Problem?” The pale man asks.

We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name! I say, angrily, and then I remember and add, and I’m not even looking for a flat!

The man stops while putting his coat on, looking at me for a long moment, takes a breath and says, “I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid. I also know about your insomnia and the shameful visits at the morgue that used to cure that problem of yours. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

My eyes flit to my cane and then I’m taking a look around, speechless.

He turns and going through the door, but then leans back through the frame, into the computer room and says, "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one B, Paper Street. Afternoon!" He winks and disappears. 

I feel like I’ve been slapped on my face, and it takes me a few moments to fully believe that I’m not even looking for a flat.


End file.
